


Anything Can Happen

by sirsquidfish_thefirst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, F/F, F/M, Gen, Setting - America, tags to be added as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-13 03:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5693191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirsquidfish_thefirst/pseuds/sirsquidfish_thefirst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."--Neil Gaiman<br/>~*~<br/>(or how Sherlock learned to love from an American high school, a small town drama case, an anonymous group, a mindless killer, poetry, and a certain pathologist that stole his heart and ran away with it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my second multi chapter fanfic, so I'm still getting a little used to it all. The format may be a little weird here and there, so forgive me for that. The summary will change once the story advances, I promise. For now, I plan on updating every two weeks, perhaps, or as often as I can without getting ahead of myself, hah.  
> This will be my first casefic and will probably be a little cheesy, but boy, I'm excited to work on this. You just wait, this'll be legendary. Hopefully.  
> Unbetaed, unbritpicked. I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters, but I do own the plot and the original characters/places.  
> Enjoy!

Brandy had a bad feeling.

Of course, she always had bad feelings. Bad feelings about tests and failing them (she always managed to scrape by with a barely passing grade, though), bad feelings about games, bad feelings about car drives...the list went on and on.

But this was a different bad feeling. Not like a feeling one gets when they're anxious, like a stomach-turning sensation. This one felt more like...ice. Little slivers of ice running up and down her spine, as if someone was sliding an ice cube into her shirt. 

She felt...watched.

Well, that was a silly notion, anyways. She and her date had been hanging out by the Makeout Tree, as loads of people at school called it. An old oak, at least a century old, grew near the bank of a rather sad looking creek. It was the only tree that looked as if it really wanted to live. In the bark, dozens of kids and their partners had carved their names into it, scarring the tree and making it look battle-worn. Even though a lot of kids passed through the area and...well, made out, it was well hidden from sight of the highway, and who would even want to stalk a bunch of high schoolers kissing in the first place?

Brandy glanced back uneasily to her car. Making an escape sounded quite nice by now. Besides, her date brought his truck, so it wasn't like he wouldn't be able to get home. 

Now that she thought about it...why the hell would a person take their first date to a dump like this? Sure, it had romantic history (probably), but it was...gross. It smelled like dead fish and rotting logs.

No wonder the water facility shut down; it couldn't keep up with how much shit had been dumped into the creek. That, and the creek was nearly dry, so all of the business went _down the drain_ , so to speak. It was a shame. Her family had owned it for so long, only for it to decay at the edge of the town.

“Hey, Brandy! Check this out!” 

The girl stifled a sigh and turned to her date. Why did she agree to date him? He was a moron. She plastered a fake smile on her face and asked sweetly, “What is it?”

Oh. A bottle of whiskey. She suddenly scowled and shook her head. “Oh, no. I'm not touching that crap with a ten foot pole,” she snapped, mood dampening even more. Brandy watched as he opened the bottle and took a swig, shuddering at the taste before smacking his lips.

“Cmon, Brandy, just a bit won't hurt. You've had, like, two beers before. Your name’s even an alcoholic beverage, for god’s sake. It won't get you wasted right away, promise,” he coaxed. He waved the bottle teasingly before wandering to his truck then plopping himself on the edge of his truck’s bed.

Brandy pursed her lips. “First off, those two beers are the only drinks I've ever had. _Period_. My name has nothing to do with this, two. Third, my coach would murder me and hide the body if she _ever_ found out about me drinking whiskey or anything like it. My scholarships rest on basketball and volleyball, and I'm not about to give those up for...for some stupid date! I'm out of here.” She turned on her heel and marched towards her car, seething. Why would he care about something as menial as scholarships? Dude wasn't even going to college. 

Behind her, she could hear him whining for her to come back, but she clambered into her car and locked the doors. Soon, she heard him cuss loudly, and right after that, the truck’s engine turned over. When she was sure he was gone, Brandy leant back and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Hopefully, he'd leave her alone. 

Peace and quiet, not to mention that her car smelled way better than that nasty creek.

A sudden chill ran down her spine. There it was again. That feeling. Someone was watching her.

She paused for a moment, worked up her courage, then scrambled from her car. Her heart pushed against her ribs desperately, as if trying to escape. That wasn't possible, though. Her car had been locked the entire time…

“Guess you should've checked more carefully, huh, girlie?” 

Brandy screamed at the top of her lungs and lunged for her car. No, no...this couldn't be happening, _this couldn't be happening_...how _could_ she have missed it? They must've snuck into her car when she hadn't been looking, which was a lot. Still...how?

A strong pair of arms wrapped around her middle, and her scream was cut off as a cloth was shoved into her mouth. A sharp prick in her neck made her body go limp, and she barely had enough time to see herself being shoved into the trunk of her own car and to see two adult figures situating themselves in the front before darkness swept over her.

“It's quite a shame that you'll be missing Tuesday’s game, Brandy. I've heard that Fort York is pretty good this year. They're going to miss their star player, your team is.”

She lifted her head, opened her mouth, and promptly passed out.  
~*~  
“Jesus. And on a weekend too, the poor bastard.” Greg scraped his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, a slight scowl on his face. Even long after removing the body from the crime scene, he was still feeling a little bad for the corpse silently laying on the medical table in front of him. Pathetic. To the side of him, Sherlock snorted derisively.

“Feeling awful for a cadaver, are you? That’s new,” he said sardonically, blue-green eyes sweeping over the paler body. He heard Greg mutter something about how Sherlock should show some feelings of his own towards things other than dead bodies, but he merely ignored him. The only telltale sign that Sherlock had heard Greg was the tiny smirk that graced his features.

Molly Hooper sat off to one side, scribbling away furiously at some paperwork. He had barely paid any attention to her, and on any other day, he would’ve felt a bit sorry and had asked Molly if she wanted crisps, and even if she protested, he would lay a pack in front of her anyways. Now, however, he focused in on her, and she glanced up uneasily at the feeling of eyes burning into her, gaze bleary.

“Cause of death?”

“Air bubbles in the veins. There were puncture wounds between the toes. Replicated a heart attack almost perfectly, and any normal police force would’ve brushed it off as such. Good thing we have such good detectives working for London,” she said, and she beamed at the two men. Greg grinned back sheepishly, and Sherlock only hummed in acknowledgement. “Anyways, I was a little suspicious about the fact that a man would have a heart attack in the middle of an abandoned warehouse six miles from the Thames, so I investigated a bit more than usual. Terribly cliche, but it’s a good method for a quick and easy kill.”

“What a crappy day to wear sandals.”

This remark from Greg pulled a quiet giggle from Molly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued on urgently.

“Was there any identification?”

Molly nodded and slid from her stool. “Arnold Sweet. CEO of a packing company on the outskirts of London. He was thirty-four,” she explained. She handed Sherlock a file, smiled at him briefly, then went back to the counter to begin working on the stack of paperwork on her desk. “He had a wallet with him, but interestingly enough, everything was still there. Cash, credit card, driver’s license. It’s like the killer didn’t even want anything. Well...except for Arnold to be dead,” she continued, sorting out the papers and cursing quietly when a few of them fluttered to the floor.

He took a moment to look Molly over fully for a moment. In the few years that he’s known her, she had grown so much. She didn’t stammer when she talked to him, she was stronger than anyone could ever imagine out of a woman like her, and Molly stood up for herself. It was nice to be able to talk to her and have someone that really understood what he was saying. She talked his language, and in turn, he gave her crisps and sometimes a bit of the little humanity he had to offer.

Seemed like a pretty fair trade, all in all.

Sherlock took a look through the report then snapped the file shut. He gave Molly a tight smile. “Thank you. Were there any clues lying on or near the body?” He questioned. Molly then slid from her stool once again to reach into a drawer. She slid a plastic bag towards Sherlock and finally returned to her work for real. 

“Found this pinned to the body’s chest. Gave me the creeps. Obviously, the killer isn’t done. Maybe they are, and they’re just trying to lead us off on the wrong path so they won’t be found. Have fun trying to decipher it.”

In response, Sherlock waved lazily, starting towards the door as his eyes trained on the little piece of paper contained inside of the plastic. If he had looked back, he would’ve seen Molly smiling at him warmly, waving a goodbye in reply to his own wave.

He had been too lost in his own thoughts to notice, however. 

Slowly, Sherlock pulled the paper from its confines, his eyes scanning it rapidly. Then he read over it again, his brows furrowing in confusion. Bit by bit, he had slowed down to a languid walking pace as he studied the scrap again and again. Greg had already seemed to have given up on him, because Sherlock couldn’t hear him behind him muttering things underneath his breath. All the better.

What had confused him the most was the fact that there was a...poem? There was a poem on the paper. It painted a rather grotesque picture. Even though Sherlock never had a full understanding of poetry--what was the point, no need to fill his head with useless information that he was just going to delete later--he had a pretty good understanding of what the writer had been getting at. The font was in large, loopy letters, neat and tidy but still hard to read.

_Oh, when the bell tolls twelve_

_In the place where it is not over hill,_

_But under_

_Next to the state of the flowers from the sun_

_A girl will find the meaning of life in death_

_Of the Joneses_

_Across the Pond._

Poems were certainly an interesting touch. From what Sherlock could gather, the killer had no interest in stopping with Sweet. Perhaps they had a grudge to avenge. Whatever the reason, it was clear that he was going to find many more bodies if he didn’t track the killer down in time. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket at that moment. Sherlock pulled it out, and he smirked at the text that flashed on the screen.

_Dead body found in a dump. Beheaded. Found behind Angelo’s. Coming? GL_

He shot off a text as he walked out of the door. 

_Of course. Don’t be dull. SH_  
~*~  
Molly’s fingers hovered over her phone’s screen, and ever so slowly, she typed in Sherlock’s number. The phone rang once, twice, then the familiar baritone of Sherlock’s voice filled the speaker. Her heart thrilled a little.

“Yes, Molly?”

“Found anything from the poem yet?”

A deep sigh followed her inquiry. “Nothing other than what I’ve told you. You see, I'm not really a literature type of man,” he said. 

Three days. Three days since Sweet’s body had been found, and they haven’t really found any other clues from the killer other than that damned poem. There were no fingerprints, hair strands, or any other lead left on or around the body and the area it had been in. Clearly the killer wasn’t a terrific moron, as many usually were. For crying out loud, they should at least wear gloves when handling a weapon or the victim to avoid leaving fingerprints!

Speaking of…

“Did you dust it for prints?”

“Yes. Nothing was there. Even though the note was handwritten, it’s in a font that’s hardly able to be identified. The murderer could’ve written this with their non-dominant hand,” Sherlock mused. There was a moment of peace before Molly continued on tentatively.

“So...you’ve really found nothing else?”

“Correct. As it’s painfully obvious the perpetrator tried their best to make sure we knew they weren’t done, we know that Sweet won’t be their first and last victim, unless we act fast. From the poem, I’ve gathered that a lot of hints were dropped in it as to where the next body will be found--again, if we don’t start working quickly. ‘When the bell tolls twelve’ tells me that the murder will take place in the afternoon or at midnight; it’s highly likely it would be at twelve at night, because not many people are up and around at that time. ‘Of the Joneses’--obviously the victim will be from a Jones family. America is usually referred to the country ‘across the pond’, so there’s no surprise there. I’m going to need a bit more time to decipher the rest.

“But I’m no genius,” Sherlock finished dryly, earning a titter from Molly.

Molly stroked Toby as she leant back in her chair. “Well, I’m no brain at literature either, but I have a copy of the poem, so I’ll tell you if I’ve got any ideas about the location. At least we know it’s in America. Makes our lives a bit easier, probably. Don’t you think it’s a little cheesy that a murderer would leave something as tedious as a poem as a calling card, though?” Molly questioned suddenly.

Sherlock took a while to reply. “No. Yes _and_ no, I suppose. It's smart to confuse the police force, lead them on the wrong trail, but at the same time, leaving something like this would also give away some pretty good details about where one would find the next body. Kudos to the killer.”

Molly thanked Sherlock for his time then said a quick goodbye before hanging up. She set Toby to the side, and she lifted herself from the sofa to go and study the poem again. Two brains working together were better than one, she thought.

It felt strange, being able to talk to Sherlock practically whenever she wanted to, but he owed it to her for hiding him in her flat after The Fall. They’d become pretty close, and she had thought that they were probably friends now, but Sherlock always held her at an arm’s length away. It was frustrating, but it was better that way, she knew. Yet, just once, she’d like to know what it felt like to be held by him…

Oh. That was strange. She hadn’t noticed the little flower drawn in the bottom corner of the note. Her eyes scanned the lines of words then rested on the flower once again. It was purple. A violet, maybe?

It was late. She’d tell Sherlock about it tomorrow.  
~*~  
_Ring. Ring. Ring._

For the third time that day, Sherlock’s phone rang. God, he was going to set that thing on fire and throw it out of the window.

First time, it had been his mum, wanting to chat with him about life and lovely things in general. His mother was a sweet woman (and pretty intimidating, even now), but he had better things to do than _conversing about the weather_. He politely turned her down, and he promised her a visit to the house to see her in person. 

The second time had been Molly. She had sounded pretty excited about something, and he had only managed to survive partway through her inane tittering before Sherlock interrupted in annoyance.

“The poem, Sherlock, the poem!” Molly eventually said, excitement coursing through her voice.

“What about it?”

“Alright, so the line saying something about the state with the flowers from the sun or whatever…”

“Yeah.”

“...and the town that’s not over hill, but under…”

Sherlock reached for a notepad with renewed interest. “Continue.”

“I did some research last night. The US has flowers assigned to states for some reason. I dunno why. Really charming actually. Anyways, ‘flowers from the sun’. Sunflowers. I looked that up, and the state that has the sunflower as its flower is Kansas. So that leaves the fact that the poem says the state _next_ to Kansas; doesn’t mean that it’s _in_ it. That leaves Missouri, Colorado, Nebraska, and Oklahoma.

“The next clue is that since it says the town is not over hill, but under, means that the town isn’t really underneath the ground. Pretty sure hobbits don’t exist, so we have to look at this another way. _Underhill_. The name of the town is Underhill. Guess what? The only state that has the town of Underhill within its borders out of the four states I listed was Missouri. Underhill, Missouri. You’re welcome,” Molly finished smugly.

Sherlock sad in dumbfounded silence before speaking up. “Glad I came to you for help,” he said slowly. Molly giggled, wished him a warm farewell, and hung up.

He glanced down at the paper in his hand. _Underhill, Missouri_ , his handwriting proclaimed. There was no way that that was right, though. They couldn’t just… _assume_ that the killer would hit their next target at this exact location. Then again, anything was possible.

He’d wait it out for now.

However, that damned phone was getting on his nerves...

He glanced at it sourly, toying with the idea as it continued to ring cheerfully, oblivious to its looming doom. Finally, with a sharp sigh, Sherlock pushed his goggles onto his head, stripped off his gloves, and picked up the phone gingerly and petulantly without checking the ID.

“Hello,” Sherlock began impatiently, “you seem to have reached me at an inconvenient time, as I have two toes and an eyeball stuck in hot, boiling lemon lime soda. They are in grave danger of exploding, so I must have my full attention on them at all times. You have approximately thirty seconds to pique my interest with your boring prattle before I hang up and destroy this phone forever with a handgun and five matches. Your time starts now.”

“Rude to greet your elder brother like that, Sherly.”

Sherlock scowled. “What do you want, Mycroft?” He snapped.

A pause, then Mycroft said softly, “There’s been another body found.”

His lips pursed. “Where?”

“Underhill, Missouri. United States. They need your help in finding the killer.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “What else is new,” he grumbled.

“Sorry?”

“I’ve already figured out that the killer would be located in Underhill. I had no idea that they would act so soon,” he replied quickly. He tapped his fingers against the table and scowled again. “I hope this isn't a repeat of that goose and the gemstone…”

“Mm. Yes. Well, you’d best find a partner. You’re leaving for Underhill in the morning, first thing. I’ve already alerted the police force there that you’ll be working for them. Ah, and according to them, there’s been a girl missing for nearly two weeks now. Gone without a trace. They think the case may tie in with her somehow, because they’ve got no leads to her whereabouts. Would you like me to alert John Watson?”

Sherlock shook his head immediately, and when he finally realized that his brother couldn’t see him, he blurted out a, “No.”

“No?” Mycroft sounded amused. “Then who would you like to go with you? I'm out of the question, terribly busy schedule, but you weren't about to debate that, now were you?”

“Molly. Molly Hooper. She was the one who helped me figure out about Underhill. She’ll be useful.” What was he doing, wanting Molly to go with him on a potentially dangerous case? He reasoned with himself that John was rather busy with Mary and Annabelle. Greg wouldn’t be much of a help, and Sally could be a great partner, if they could at least stand to be around each other for more than three seconds without bickering. Anderson was out of the question entirely. That left Molly, and well...it was only fair, he decided firmly.

Mycroft was silent for a while. “Are you sure that you’d like her to go with you? I could find a way to get John--”

“Get me Molly.”

“What if she’s unavailable? It’s nearing the holidays, you know. September is a busy month.”

Sherlock smirked slightly. “She’ll have an open schedule. Don't worry,” he chuckled.

With that statement, Mycroft hung up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Underhill, here they come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed, unbritpicked. As usual, own nothing except OCs, etc etc. Enjoy!

“So you want me…”

“To come with me to America, yes.”

Molly pressed her lips together, stirring her coffee to occupy the lingering silence. It was probably the crappiest cup of coffee she had ever gotten from the cafeteria--no amount of sugar was ever going to fix it, that much she knew--and she really had no idea why she still had it other than it gave her hands something to fiddle with while she chatted with Sherlock.

It was almost a comfort. 

“For the case, I assume,” she finally said. He nodded in response. When it was obvious that he wasn’t going to go much farther than that, she continued. “How long will we be there? I have a job, you know.”

Sherlock glanced away momentarily. His expression wavered long enough for Molly to see the trepidation there. “As long as we need to be until the case is finished,” he murmured.

She chewed on her bottom lip slightly. She had been worried about that. “Sherlock, I’m sorry, but--”

“I can get someone to fill your spot. I promise you, if you help me on this case, the longest that this’ll take will be three months. Give me time, Molly.” Sherlock took in a deep breath and added on quietly, “Please.”

Molly’s mouth twisted. “Sherlock, I can't be gone for that long. I could lose my job,” she explained apologetically.

Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes. “You won't lose your job, not if I can help it,” he promised lowly.

“What about my cat?”

“Leave him with John and Mary. They’d be pleased to have him, or Mary will, at least.”

“Why isn’t John coming with you?”

“He’s busy with a new family life. Besides, he can’t identify many smaller clues left about like you can,” Sherlock said with a smirk. At this, Molly blushed.

“Fair enough.” Molly stood, and she strode over to the trash bin to throw away the awful coffee left in her cup. She heard Sherlock get up from his seat and follow her. 

Sherlock’s voice floated over her shoulder to her. “So are you coming?”

It was Molly's turn to smirk. “Let me go discuss things with my boss. This isn't a yes, just so you know.”

When she passed by Sherlock, he looked as if he were between hope and annoyance. He was then striding the other way, and he was gone in an instant.

Strange man, Sherlock was.  
~*~  
Oddly enough, her boss had had no problems with her being gone for so long. He hadn’t even seemed the least bit surprised about it, either.

So here she was, about to board a private jet set for America. Sherlock stood beside her, silent and intense as always.

It blurred a little after that: she boarded the jet, listened to the bland chatter of the pilot reminding them to stay seated and etcetera, looked at Sherlock once or twice (he must've been in his mind palace), then fell asleep.

Why was she on this trip, and why had she agreed so early on? She hadn’t the least little bit of an idea of what she had gotten herself into (well, she did slightly, but that was beside the point). Of course, when she remembered what tales Sherlock had told her about the dangers he had gotten into in the past, she immediately packed her scalpel away in her bag. Whatever the case, she was stuck with Sherlock until the case was over with.

Which, she thought moodily, could be a very long time. John had told her stories about how insufferable he was as a flatmate. Hopefully, that wouldn’t happen with her, especially the bit about eyeballs in the tea, but she couldn’t count on it.

John and Mary had taken Toby in without hesitation, and they had even invited her for tea a last time before she left for America. Over tea, they had given her advice on anything from dealing with Sherlock to the proper way of holding a knife to someone’s throat.

Because, as Mary had told her, anything was possible. She had looked grim when Molly had been told that, and they had sat in a period of heavy silence before John had broken it with a cheery, “More tea?”

“Molly.”

Slowly, Molly opened her eyes and glanced up. Her cheeks flushed a deep red as she realized that she had rested her head on Sherlock's shoulder the entire flight when she had been asleep. Quickly, she straightened up in her seat and tried to not look at Sherlock.

“We’ve landed. It’ll be at least a couple of hours by car to get to Underhill.” Amusement was evident in his voice. “Oh, and Molly?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Try not to fall asleep on my shoulder again.”

His laughter made her head snap up in fury. “Sherlock, I swear to god, you little c--”

“--ongratulations on completing a safe travel! Hope to see you again soon, and have a wonderful day!” The speakers chirped as Molly gathered her things. As they were leaving, they were each handed a badge. In it contained an ID and a pass for a school in Underhill.

Sherlock must've seen the confusion on her face, because as soon as they entered the car, he explained, “We’ve been given passes to enter nearly everywhere in Underhill. There’s only one school in Underhill, which is the high school, and from what I've gathered, some of the students could be in danger. There have been a couple of teachers missing, and at least one student hasn’t been seen for two weeks. We need to interview as many people as we can get to so another body doesn’t show up.”

“Ah.” Molly glanced around the inside of the car. “You know, I was sort of hoping this thing would be bigger on the inside, but it’s rather cramped, isn’t it?”

Sherlock scowled a little and nodded to his folded up legs. “You’re lucky to be so small. God, I hate having long legs sometimes,” he grumbled. Molly giggled.

After a while, Sherlock dug out a book from his bag and started reading. Deciding against bothering him, Molly stared out of the window. Rain had begun to splatter against the windows, and in the glass, Molly saw her reflection. She looked a bit worn out but overall okay.

By the time this case was over, she had a feeling that she wouldn’t look alike to this reflection.

The grey sky still moped about when they had finally arrived at Underhill. As they passed the buildings scattered throughout the town (some were battered, others were prim and neatly decorated), Molly saw a few people stare in the direction of the car in surprise. Molly supposed that not much excitement must’ve ever taken place in Underhill if the most surprising thing to see was an unfamiliar car.

“The first place we’ll be going to is the police station. We’ll be briefed on what they have--or haven’t--done thus far, and then we’ll go and find where we’ll be staying. Don’t worry,” he added upon seeing her face, slyly, “there will be two beds at the motel.”

Molly opened her mouth, thought about it for a moment, then closed it and clambered out of the car after Sherlock. 

The police station, they discovered, was much smaller than the ones they were acquainted with. 

Much, much smaller. 

The brick lining the sides on the building look crumbled and cracked. Molly could see a couple of chunks of crumbled red brick on the ground. It must’ve been an old building, then. The doors looked more like prison doors, entirely of metal and with a little window towards the top. And the windows...well. They were barred.

Molly casted a tentative look to Sherlock, and in turn, he met her eyes and shrugged a little. He was having some feelings of hesitation too, it seemed. 

“Ready?” She found herself asking. Molly stepped up beside him and touched his shoulder lightly.

Sherlock jumped a little at the touch, but he relaxed and nodded. “Let’s get this over with,” he whispered.

The door creaked and groaned angrily as Sherlock pushed it open. A dark hallway, barely lit with a single lamp, and a grouchy secretary later, they were sitting in the chief officer’s office, awkwardly situated in the uncomfortable wooden chairs they had been provided with. A moment later, a man with a scruffy chin in uniform entered, sipping at a bottle of water. He looked a bit nervous, but he tried to play it off by sitting on his desk. He peered over his glasses at Molly, looked her over slowly, then did the same to Sherlock next. 

“You must be that Sherlock man the secretary had told me about. And this is…”

“Er...Molly. Molly Hooper.” She tapped her fingers against her knee anxiously. “I’m helping him,” she laughed skittishly. She knew that he was an officer, but he seemed a little...sketchy. 

He was nearly as thin as Sherlock, but he was shorter. His badge declared his name to be Tony. His eyes darted between the two of them suspiciously, and he kept glancing down to a drawer in his desk.

Sherlock made a noise of acknowledgement beside her. “We were told that you have some information to give us,” he stated. His tone indicated that he was not quite in the mood to be told otherwise.

Tony narrowed his eyes, and he picked up a file from on top of his desk then tossed it to Sherlock. He caught it with one hand. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed minutely at Tony as he tucked the file away in his coat. “So what have the officials done so far to investigate the murders and kidnappings?” He started.

Tony nodded to where Sherlock had just stuck the file. “Should all be there. We’ve found out that only the girl had been kidnapped. The two teachers who were gone from the high school were just out of town. Only one other girl had been murdered here. Sarah Jones, the high school’s cheer captain, was found dead in her family’s garage. She was found hanging from the rafters. It was thought to be a suicide, but there was a note found with her body.”

“Have you interviewed any of the family members of the kidnapped girl? Any witnesses?”

The officer seemed a little taken aback by Sherlock's questions, but he pressed on. There was a noticeable tremor in his voice now. “No. We...hadn’t really thought that far. We were still trying to figure out the poem left on the note--”

“Idiots,” Molly heard Sherlock mutter underneath his breath. “So,” he said brightly, and he stood abruptly from his chair, “it’s all here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It should be.” Molly noticed that Tony had a Southern accent. 

“Oh. Too lazy to go ahead and explain what your division of the department has done for the community?” Sherlock taunted. Molly’s hand flew out and grasped his wrist warningly.

“Are you threatening me, sir?” Tony replied sharply, his hand drifting to the holster at his hip. His eyes were suddenly wild and guarded. 

“Just wanted to look into something. My assistant and I will be off now. Next time I'm in, which won’t be very far off, I can guarantee that, make sure you know what your department is doing before you provide me with information.”

Tony stammered angrily as Sherlock tugged Molly from his office and slammed the door behind him. Molly heard Tony curse loudly before they rounded the corner.

“What was that about?” Molly demanded, once they were in the car again and going to the motel. “There was no need to be rude like that. Tony was only giving you the information you needed, and quite frankly, your insults weren’t necessary at _all_.”

“Information,” Sherlock pointed out, “that he doesn't know about. He’s not doing the work, Molly, otherwise he wouldn’t have given us such a thick file. He should have the information down pat and should be able to spout it without aid. Now we just have to find out who’s been doing the work and ask them about what they’ve done.”

“Are they at least connected to the police department?” Molly inquired hesitantly.

Sherlock chuckled. “I highly doubt it, Molly.”

That was enough to make Molly shut up for a while.  
~*~  
“Ah, shit.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows at Molly’s exclamation. “What is it--oh.”

One bed.

One bed was all they had been supplied with.

Sure, the motel was clean and almost charming, and the hospitality was decent, but Sherlock hadn’t asked for a room with only one bed.

Had he? He couldn't remember.

Molly sighed and went to the corner to set her things down. “It’s alright. I’ll just sleep on the floor. You take the bed.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “Don’t be irritating, Molly. _You_ take the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor,” he retorted tartly.

“You’re not making me change my mind, Sherlock.”

“I think it’s only fair that you agree to my plan, as you made me ask for extra towels.”

“Oh, for--come _on_ , Sherlock. It won't bother me to sleep on the floor, promise. It’ll be uncomfortable, but I've dealt with worse.”

“Well, Miss Hooper, it seems that we've come to an impasse. Shall we flip a coin?”

Molly made a frustrated noise. “Stop being such a gentleman and just agree to go along with what I've said!”

“Which is?” Sherlock sneered.

Molly threw her hands up. “At this point, we’d be better off just _sleeping together_!”

Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he stared at her, dumbfounded. She was suddenly stammering, scrambling quickly to find an acceptable excuse.

“I-I mean, we...there’s no point in arguing, the bed is big enough for...er, two, and I meant sleeping together as in… _not like that_ , you know? Could’ve worded that a bit better, sorry,” she said with a fluttery laugh. She was looking at everything but him. He didn’t particularly care for that, he realized.

Sherlock shrugged. “Alright,” he responded casually.

That seemed to have caught Molly off guard. Good. “Sorry, what?” She squeaked.

“Your reasoning. I like it. We’ll just sleep together, then, and as you put it, _not in that way_.” Sherlock smirked and threw Molly a towel. It smacked her in the face before she hurried to grab it. “I’ll let you have the shower first. Make it quick,” he drawled. 

Face burning, Molly practically ran for the tiny bathroom. 

Molly was unexpected at times. No matter. Sherlock rather enjoyed the bits of excitement she brought.

Having a bit of pity for Molly, Sherlock decided that he’d wear a shirt to bed to save Molly further embarrassment from staring and saying something off-handedly. He was also fairly glad that they had agreed to share the bed, because the temperature had dropped quickly, leaving the room almost cold enough to see their breaths, and the motel didn’t have a heater to supply them with in the middle of September. 

Sherlock noticed that Molly fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. He also noticed that she liked to cuddle rather closely to him when she was cold.

Not that he minded. 

On top of that, Sherlock noticed that in the morning, her body was molded against his.

He didn’t mind that either. She kept him warm.

Though the fuzzy pajamas covered in a rather annoying pattern of multicolored ducks he did mind. They were simply garish.  
~*~  
Molly glanced around the office, lips pressed thin. It was sparingly decorated, though the vase of flowers in the corner was a nice touch.

“I’m sorry I’m a bit late, you two. Had to deal with a couple of youngsters that spray painted the northern end of the school, you know how teens tend to be.” A woman, dark skinned and bright eyed, dressed uniformly and professionally, entered the office and sat down some coffees in front of Sherlock and Molly. She placed some sugars and creamers down as well before seating herself at her desk. Observations were quietly made before she continued with, “I assume that you’re here because of Sarah Jones and Brandy Almond, no?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, this is Molly Hooper.” Molly nodded and smiled warmly at the woman; the woman returned it with as much kindness. “We’d just like to know if you’ve seen or heard anything suspicious,” he murmured. He briefly glanced to Molly and quirked a brow at the sight of her sipping at her coffee. She shrugged in return.

The woman hummed and sat back in her chair touching a pen thoughtfully to her lips. “I can’t say that I’ve seen anything strange going on in the school, necessarily,” she started slowly, “but I _have_ gotten a couple of reports from students telling me that the history teacher has been worse than usual, lately. Cranky and defensive, as one student put it. I can’t really count on that for anything, though. She can’t stand him, always couldn’t get along with him. SHe gets along fine with any other teacher, but--sorry. Rambling, aren't I?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“That’s fine, please continue.”

Molly and Sherlock exchanged looks before focusing back on the woman.

“Oh, goodness, I haven't introduced myself, have I? I’m Joan Reich, the principal here at Underhill High School. Nice to meet you two,” she beamed. 

“How long have you been in this position, if you don’t mind me asking?” Sherlock suddenly asked, leaning forwards in his seat. 

Joan seemed a bit startled by his sudden behavior, but she shook it off and replied with, “About five years. Why?”

Sherlock took out a notepad, scribbled something down quickly, then sighed. “Are you aware about the fact that there was also a murder in London? The only reason why we’re here _from_ Britain is because this town is in danger. There was a poem left with the body, and the words pointed to right here, in Underhill.”

“There was also a poem left with Sarah Jones’s body. Here’s a copy of it,” Molly piped up. She slid the paper to Joan and watched as her eyes got wider and wider, horror shining in them. Molly had already read it, and she knew what it transcribed.

_Too late, too late_

_You were too late for poor Sarah Jones_

_Left a'hangin', left to gravity_

_To see what it could do_

_"Frosty"'s next, poor dear_

_With a husband left to boss_

_And civilians left to run._

_Tick tock, the plants have ears and eyes._

Disgust quickly took over on Joan’s expression. “That’s horrific. Oh, god. No, we can’t let this happen to anyone. If you ever need help with something or someone in or around the town, then let me know,” she said softly.

“Can you tell me about Sarah Jones, Miss Reich?” Sherlock asked gently.

Joan glanced away briefly. Molly could see that she was holding back tears. “She was a great student. Nearly everyone loved Sarah to bits. She was kind and thoughtful and always thought the best of everyone. I don’t think that she had _any_ enemies at all. The cheerleaders loved her to bits. I mean, she was practically the coach.” Her smooth voice suddenly cracked. “Everyone misses her. You can definitely tell that the spunk the cheerleaders had is gone now.”

Sherlock smiled grimly. “We’ll find who did this to Sarah. Promise.” He lifted himself from his chair and held out his hand. Molly did the same. “In the meantime, it was nice meeting you. Molly and I will just be looking around the school and asking some questions for the teachers, if you don’t mind.”

Joan wiped her tears away on a tissue then shook both Molly's and Sherlock's hands. “No, go right ahead. I hadn’t really known that you’d show up today, so don’t surprised if you’re looked at a bit funny,” she laughed. “School begins at eight o’clock. It’s about fifteen til, so get a feel for the school before you go around and ask questions. We’re not a really big school compared to some of the competition, but you may want to know where the restrooms are, anyways.”

Molly laughed and thanked Joan before following Sherlock out of the office. There were kids already milling about in the commons, chatting and lounging. A few looked their way and whispered to their friends. Molly stuck a bit closer to Sherlock. 

“Where to, first?” She whispered, chewing on her bottom lip slightly. 

Sherlock gently pushed her towards a set of doors. “I’m going to go look around a bit more thoroughly than entirely necessary,” he said, a hint of snark in his tone. “I’ll come and get you before eight, don’t worry.”

“Wait, Sherlock.” She grabbed his sleeve before he could walk away. “What did you think of Joan? Was there anything wrong with her that I didn’t see.” To Molly, she seemed alright. Very sweet and obviously quite bright.

Sherlock paused before replying slowly, “I think that she cares a lot for her students. I don’t think she’s hiding anything, at least not yet, but...she’s safe to be around. Don’t be afraid of her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He then shrugged her off and strode away, coat flying behind him. The same kids that had been chatting earlier had a keen interest in Sherlock all of a sudden. They watched him walk away with slightly guarded expressions before returning to their conversations, their voices pitched lower.

Molly glanced around rather timidly before entering the double doors in front of her. Might as well start here. 

She wasn’t prepared to see a few kids sitting around in bleachers that lined a court. This must’ve been the gym, then. A lone girl was out on the wooden floors, dribbling a ball and shooting around the lines painted on the timber.

Two options: leave and risk a trip around the school on her own (out of the question, her brain practically screamed at her), or stay here and observe.

She took in a soft breath and made her way up the steps of the bleachers. Carefully, she stepped around the lounging kids and sat behind a girl that looked the least bit intimidating. The girl wore glasses and a long skirt with colorful patterns, and her black, silken hair was in a bun. Books and papers lay scattered around her and on her knees, and she was scribbling away purposefully in a notebook.

The girl on the court stopped dribbling, tucked the ball underneath her arm, and stared up at Molly. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw her staring straight at Molly.

At least, that’s what she thought.

“Hey, Dahlia!” Her voice was a bit rough, and it seemed to match her attire. Her long chestnut hair was bundled in a ponytail, and the casual attire of sweatpants and a t-shirt almost made her look intimidating. Sweatpants weren’t usually what Molly would attribute toughness to, but that girl could most definitely pull it off.

Teenagers weren’t supposed to be… _scary_. Why were they to Molly, though?

The girl in front of Molly stifled a sigh, pushed her glasses up her nose, and replied with, “What, Val?” Her voice was the complete opposite of the previous speaker: it was silvery and light.

The girl named Val grinned. “Stop being a nerd and get down here!”

“You know I have to study for this quiz, Val.”

“You stayed up all night studying. I can see the circles underneath your eyes from here. Hey, is our deal still on?”

Dahlia leant back in her seat. Her back was nearly touching Molly's knees. “What deal?” She teased.

“You know the one.”

“The one where if you shoot it from half-court and make it, I'll give you a prize?”

Val smirked and shifted the ball to rest on her other hip. “Maybe today will be the day,” she taunted. Dahlia merely shook her head and crossed her arms.

“Go on, then. Make it quick, or I'm calling it off.”

Val sauntered to the middle of the court, lined herself up with one of the baskets, and cocked the ball back with one arm. “Hey, Dahlia, if I make it, are you gonna give me a kiss?” She called.

Dahlia laughed, “You’re just going to have to make it and see, now aren't you?”

With a slight shifting and a grunt, Val hurled the ball towards the basket. It hit the glass then bounced to the floor. Val looked rather crestfallen, and Molly almost felt sorry for the girl.

Almost.

Dahlia must've seen the look on Val’s face, because her shoulders started to shake with giddy laughter. She leant back a little far, and her back touched Molly's knees.

Molly jumped back a little as Dahlia glanced to Molly, noticing her for the first time. Her brown eyes widened, and she touched Molly’s knee apologetically. “Oh, god, sorry about that!” She crooned. She rubbed at a coffee colored cheek shyly, her eyes flitting away. “Didn’t see you there. Wait...how long have you been here?”

Molly tittered and waved a hand dismissively. “Ah...long enough to see your encounter with that girl down there,” she replied, smiling kindly.

“This chick bothering ya, sweetcheeks?” Val was suddenly standing beside Dahlia, her expression darkening a little. “Look, pal, I don’t know who you are, but--”

Dahlia was on her feet in an instant, her hand placed against Val’s shoulder. “Hey, calm down. She wasn’t bothering me, Val. We’re just chatting,” she chastised, her brows drawn together. Val relaxed slightly, but she considered Molly with an air of suspicion.

“Who are you, anyways?” She asked gruffly.

Molly blinked a couple of times before her cheeks heated. “I-I'm Molly Hooper. Nice to meet you, er…”

Dahlia clasped Molly's hand when it was apparent that Val wasn't about to and shook it firmly. “I’m Dahlia Littleton, and this is Val Brax. Are you a student teacher?”

“No, I'm here to investigate the, um...murders and kidnappings. My partner, Sherlock Holmes, he's...well. I've not a clue where he is, honestly.”

Dahlia gasped delightly and clasped her hands together, expression one of intense happiness. “Wait, you mean you’re working with _the_ Sherlock Holmes? God, he's so cool!” 

Val looked a bit miffed about that, but she admitted softly, “He’s pretty awesome. Not many people have heard about him in America, especially in these parts, but you must be okay if you’re working with him.” She held out a hand grudgingly for Molly to take, and Molly shook it. “Sorry for getting off on the wrong foot. It’s just...between what's been happening here in Underhill, it's hard to trust people right off the bat anymore.” 

“I get it. I don't blame you for feeling like that,” Molly sighed. 

Val’s expression became moody again. “You’d better find whoever it was that killed Sarah and kidnapped Brandy. They’re both..really important,” she warned.

“I’m not a violent person, but I wouldn't hesitate to strangle whoever it was that did those terrible things. They’ve both had a special place in the hearts of many here. When Principal Reich told us the news...a lot of people cried. Many more didn’t even want to attend Underhill anymore because Sarah was gone. It stinks, and I miss them both.”

A bell clanged from somewhere in the building, and Dahlia hefted her bag over her shoulder and took Val’s hand. Val squeezed it comfortingly. “That’s the four minute warning. We’d better be on our way to class. It was nice to meet you, Molly.” The two waved before making their way down the steps, talking in urgent tones, but they were too far away so she could hear them properly.

“Molly.”

She yelped loudly and clutched at her chest, whipping around to glare at Sherlock. “You ass! Don't do shit like that to me, you'll make me have a heart attack!” She hissed angrily.

Sherlock had the nerve to look not the least bit sheepish about his actions. “Highly unlikely. You're a healthy woman in her thirties. Come with me, we’re going to go and ask around,” he rambled, grabbing her hand and practically dragging her from the bleachers.

Molly huffed, yanked her hand away, and followed Sherlock, muttering things under her breath that would've made her mother blush.

“One of the teachers isn't here, so she has a substitution today. We’ll question her whenever she returns. For now, we’ll start with the history teacher. He seems...like an very animated character.”

Molly's first impression of the history teacher was that he liked to yell more than he liked to teach. Her second impression of him was that he also seemed to be a sports coach. 

Great. One of _those_ people.

“Sit down! I said, _sit down_! Lord, you people are terrible at following directions. When I was your age, they would've taken me out back and beaten me senseless!” He shouted. God, he was so loud, they could hear him loud and clear through the thick door. A couple of people snickered in the back of the room, and the teacher was about to turn his fury onto them when Sherlock knocked on the door.

The man settled down slightly and cleared his throat. “Come in,” he called. His voice was suddenly much nicer and his expression friendly, but they both hardened at the sight of Molly and Sherlock--he must've thought they had been another teacher.

“What do _you_ two want?” He barked. More snickering.

Molly, a bit offended, said back, “We’re just here to ask you a couple of questions, sir.”

He scoffed and flicked his hand dismissively, turning back to the papers on his desk. “I don't want any Girl Scout cookies, but thanks for the offer. Have you asked the lunch ladies?” 

Now there was a collective wave of laughter. Angry and mortified, Molly shrank back to Sherlock’s side, eyes trained on the ground. 

“Excuse me, but I believe that for someone whose mother cheated on her own husband and had _you_ , I highly doubt that you're in the position to treat my partner like that, much less be in a teaching position at all,” Sherlock said, his voice chilly. Molly had to bite back a smile.

She glanced up in time to see the man stiffen, his face dangerous. Echoes of “ooh”s and “Burned!” sounded around the room.

“What do you two want?” He growled.

“We want to ask you if you know anything about the deaths of Arnold Sweet and Sarah Jones or the kidnapping of Brandy Almond,” Molly spoke, face resting in the coldest expression she could muster.

For a moment, something akin to fear shone on the man’s face--it was so brief that Molly wouldn't have caught it if she was calmer about the situation--before he assembled it into a perfect imitation of annoyance. “I only know what I've been told,” he muttered.

“Which is…?”

The man bristled before pointing at the door. “Leave. I’m in the middle of a lesson,” he bit out. His eyes were uncertain, and he almost looked trapped. 

“You were really yelling at your students, but--”

“ _Get out_! I’ll answer your questions later!” 

Molly flinched at his tone and tugged at Sherlock's sleeve. She watched as Sherlock, his eyes snapping over the man quickly before returning to his face, slowly turned and strode towards the door, a smug smile on his face.

“By the way…” He turned and smiled, saccharine and sickening, and said, “Insult my partner again, and I assure you, you won’t very much like the result.”

Sherlock left behind a gaping history teacher, face red with fury, and giggling students.

Molly tentatively waved to Dahlia, who was staring, wide-eyed, after Sherlock. The girl noticed and was about to wave back, but Molly was already gone.  
~*~  
“Whoever wrote these poems must think they’re a genius.”

Sherlock glanced over to Molly from where he lain on the bed. He had been researching...something on his laptop, but Molly wasn’t quite that interested in finding out what that _something_ was. “What makes you think that?” He drawled, returning his attention to his computer.

“I mean, the whole taunting bit was a little unnecessary. They’re having too much fun with murdering people.”

“They’re a cold blooded killer, Molly, of course they’re going to have fun with it.”

Molly bit her lower lip. “That last poem sort of gave us an overview of what was going to happen to Sarah. This one explains her death more thoroughly, if a little grotesquely. ‘Left a’hangin’’, my god. Okay, so who’s this ‘Frosty’ character?”

Sherlock hummed but said nothing.

“And what about that whole bit with the plants? Jesus, the killer must think they’re _really_ smart.”

“They could be. Nobody’s caught them yet, correct?” Sherlock retorted. 

Smart ass.

She stared down at the copy of the damned poem, frustration hitting just then. In the bottom corner was the violet, nearly the same as the one on the previous sheet of paper.

“Molly, turn off the light when you’re finished. I’m going to bed.”

Molly made a noise of acknowledgement and let her eyes scan the paper for the hundredth time. If they didn’t figure it out soon, another innocent person would be dead, and it’d be partially the fault of Sherlock and Molly.

“Oh, by the way, Mycroft requested us to turn in our findings to the police station periodically, even though the chief’s a moron. We have another meeting with him tomorrow so we can tell him about what we’ve found so far. Mycroft also told me that we’ll be given civilian duties to fulfill, whatever he means by that. I assume that he wants us to get close to a few civilians in order to gain further access and information around and in town. Be prepared.”

Sherlock's snores (they were deafening--Molly was almost embarrassed for him) filled the room only moments after all of that had transpired. Meanwhile, she was still wracking her brains to try and solve the puzzle lying in front of her. 

It was almost as if the font was teasing her.

Shaking her head, Molly turned off the lamp, shuffled to the bed, and lied down beside Sherlock on the bed. Her mind was racing, but it slowed and silenced as she fell into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me at sirsquidfish-thefirst.tumblr.com!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Underhill isn't as cracked up as it seemed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeated and unbritpicked. I own nothing except the story and the OCs. Enjoy!

Sherlock glared at the wall. He had been glaring at the wall for at least an hour now. Why was he glaring at the wall, again?

Oh. Right. Because of his…“predicament”. 

Molly's body was pressed up against his again, her front against his back, and her arms were wrapped around his torso. Her cheek was against his shoulder, and he could feel every intake and exhale of her breath against his skin.

He didn't mind that bit, not at all. It was just...he was a bit stuck. He couldn't roll over, and he most definitely wasn't about to try and wake up Molly to get her to move. It was about five in the morning, after all.

He ever so gently and regretfully moved from her warm embrace, loosening her arms and wriggling from the bed. Molly made a quiet noise in her slumber, something akin to disappointment, but she quickly quieted and dipped into sleep once more.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. How domestic. Sharing a bed and cuddling with the woman he l--

Liked. The woman he liked as a friend and perhaps as a sister and nothing more.

But Sherlock heard a voice, deep in his mind, taunt, “You're only lying to yourself, Sherlock.”

“Shut it, John,” he muttered out loud, and before he could have any more revelations, he hurried to the bathroom to take a shower. The scalding water would serve him well to make him forget what had happened.

It had startled him, how readily he had agreed to sleeping with Molly in the same bed. So far, sharing a bed with her was actually...pleasant. Sure, she kicked a bit and drooled, but he knew that he probably wasn't much better--on the nights that he actually slept, of course.

Sherlock stifled a hiss as the water burnt his skin. He made no movement to adjust the temperature, though, and after a while, he became used to it, his body relaxing. He enjoyed the slight bite of the hot water; it grounded him and cleared his mind.

Eventually, the water was shut off, and Sherlock toweled himself off before wandering from the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist. In normal circumstances around Molly, he would've just taken his clothes with him into the bathroom, but he figured that she was still asleep, so he had left his clothes out in the room.

Was he ever so wrong.

“Took you long enough, Sherlock. Jeez, never would've taken you to be such a…” Molly's voice trailed off, and he could feel her eyes on his body. His cheeks suddenly heated, and he tilted his head enough to meet her confused gaze.

“See something you like, Hooper? I don't mind you staring, stare all you want to.” 

She spluttered and threw her hands up over her eyes, her face beet-red. “Ah! God! Sherlock, clothes! What have I told you about parading around with _nothing_ on?” She cried. 

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. “First off, I'm not wearing _nothing_. You see the towel? And as far as I know, nothing. What, were you expecting common courtesy out of me?” He laughed.

“I...well--you--! _Go put on some pants_!” She yelled, and he barely had enough time to react before a pair of boxers hit him square in the face.

“So you're brave enough to touch my knickers, but you're suddenly a blushing virgin when I'm out here in a towel?”

“ _Sherlock_! _Clothes_!”  
~*~  
Sherlock raised a brow, partially in amusement and partially in astonishment, at the chief. Molly merely gaped at him. “You want us to do _what_ , exactly?” He questioned slowly.

Tony’s lips twitched, tempted to fix into a frown. “You heard me. Because of Sherlock’s...brother, we've secured a place in the police department for Molly. Her office will be down the hall from mine. Conveniently, one of our officers left for a...vacation. A very, _very_ long vacation. Coincidentally, Molly is taking her place. You'll have instructions and whatnot on your desk, Molly.

“As for you, Sherlock...the biology teacher isn't back at the high school yet. The school can't afford to keep hiring different subs, so your brother arranged for you to be the new teacher.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but Tony held up a hand to silence him. “Hold on. Keep in mind this was not my idea at all. You'll only be in the position until the teacher returns. She seems to have gone missing, which is strange because the woman never misses a day of work in her life. As you are quite knowledgeable in biology, your brother figured that you'd be a good fit, as you'll be able to...teach and keep an eye out for anything suspicious at the same time.”

Molly burst in, “But Sherlock can't even deal with the morons that come in and ask him for help! How is he going to be able to deal with a bunch of _teens_?”

There was the frown. “He’ll manage,” was all Tony replied with. Molly settled back in her chair, a sour expression on her face.

“Now…” Tony turned from them to shuffle through the files on his desk, placing what little information he had gathered from them inside a folder. The drawer he seemed so nervous about opening that one night stayed shut. “You two have work to get to, no? By the way, you're both getting paid for these jobs, so I wouldn't make a fuss if I were you.” He waved his hand, annoyance written on his features. “Go.”

“God, what a pushover,” Molly muttered. Sherlock couldn't agree more.

When they stopped outside of her office (the secretary had waved them over to it and had told Molly briefly about the rules and obligations to follow, etcetera; boring in Sherlock’s book), Molly's hand hesitated on the knob.

“So I guess we're officially civilians of Underhill, then, huh?” Molly tilted her head slightly so Sherlock could see her smile. 

“I suppose.” Sherlock returned her smile half-heartedly.

“Have fun teaching a bunch of hormone-driven clods,” Molly murmured.

“I feel worse for you.” Her laugh made his blood sing. “Besides, they can't be _that_ bad.” He stepped a bit closer. They were nearly touching. He could hear the minute hitch in Molly's breathing.

Suddenly, Molly's arms were around him. His hands twitched by his sides awkwardly. “Be safe, okay?” She whispered into his chest. 

The words startled him more than her hug did, but he merely nodded and returned her embrace. “I'll try,” was all he could promise.  
~*~  
Sherlock assessed the room full of students, eyes narrowed, as they shuffled in, murmuring and plopping things down at their desks. When they were finally seated, he leant back against the teacher’s (well, his now, technically and temporarily) desk.

Silence met his ears. The students were also assessing him, making quick decisions about him based off of his figure and aura. Undoubtedly, they were trying to figure out if he was a teacher that could be messed with and not retort with anything.

The thought almost brought a smirk to his face.

He cleared his throat. Nearly every pair of eyes in the room was on him. “As you know,” he began, gaze washing over the class, “Miss Naiad Joan has been missing for nearly three weeks. We've no idea where she is or when she'll return, and the police department here is doing everything it can to find her--dead or alive.” A small collection of gasps at that sounded. He continued on. “Until she returns, I will be your sub. My name is Sherlock Holmes, as few of you may know, but you will address me as Mister Holmes.

“Take out your textbooks.” Groans met his ears, and he rolled his eyes. “You didn't let me finish. Pass them to the front of the room, because we aren't going to use them. They're useless and outdated. They've been used since the eighties. You can learn much more orally--”

“That's what she said.”

“I don't need the smart remarks, Lin. Go on, pass them up. We’ll be taking notes and doing worksheets.” Sherlock waited until the students happily piled their books in the corner of the room towards the front. He then clapped his hands together. “Who can tell me about the process of mitosis and the difference between that and meiosis?” He questioned.

One hand shot up. The rest of the students looked clueless. 

That hand belonged to the girl Sherlock had seen Molly talking with the other day. The one with the glasses and the black hair. He waited a while to call on her, and the girl progressively got more desperate for him to see her.

He sighed dramatically. “No one knows? Well, except for her. What's your answer?” He glanced sharply towards the girl. 

She took in a deep breath, pushed her glasses up her nose, and replied, “Mitosis is the process in which cells divide to produce two daughter cells. These cells have the same number of chromosomes as well as the same kind as the parent nucleus had had. This is normal for tissue growth.

“However, meiosis is the division of the parent cell into _four_ different daughter cells, and each one has only half of the chromosomes as the parent. It's often found to be the case with plant spores and gametes.”

Sherlock nodded and gave her a thumbs-up. She beamed at him then adverted her eyes.

“Dahlia, is it?” Her head snapped back up, and she nodded. “Good job. Miss Joan does a good job with teaching, no?”

Dahlia shrugged timidly. “We’re on the human body still. She seems fascinated by it, and when I tried to point out to her that assessments this year isn't going to be focused on the human body itself, but also the other aspects of Biology, she seemed to have...brushed me off,” she explained.

Sherlock hummed. “We won't be studying the human body very thoroughly. Promise. Just the more important aspects that loads of people normally miss.

“I have to know how far you all are, though. Anybody know how the body stabilizes sugars?” 

Dahlia’s hand went up again. No one else dared.

“Okay…” Sherlock pursed his lips. “How many amino acids does the body use and need, and what are their purposes?”

A couple of other people hemmed and hawed, but again, only Dahlia’s hand shot up.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, irritation starting to set in. “At least tell me that you know the difference between veins and arteries, both by their structures _and_ their functions,” he muttered.

The same result as last. 

This was going to be a difficult job.

“Christ almighty,” he said underneath his breath. “Since we don't even have a basic understanding of elementary Biology,” he said, louder this time, “we will begin with that. Be ready for it tomorrow. Homework may or may not be assigned, but be prepared for anything.”

“Sorry, but I have football practice after school under seven. I can't afford to have homework. Coach won't be too happy if I can't perform in practice because of homework,” snipped a voice at the front of the room. Sherlock's gaze snapped to the boy that the voice belonged to. He was smirking in a self-satisfied way.

“I'm sorry, I must've heard wrong, because what I heard was a bunch of gibberish. Care to repeat what you said?” Sherlock asked dangerously.

The boy held his hands up in mock defeat. “Just making a point. My weeks are usually pretty busy.”

Sherlock's eye twitched. “Well, if homework bothers you so much, why are you still in here, Miles?” He said back pleasantly. Miles looked surprised at the fact that Sherlock knew his name, but he quickly abandoned the shock for the scowl.

“I don't appreciate the sass.”

“I'm sorry, who's the teacher in here again?” Sherlock snapped. He was already losing his temper. He allowed himself a couple of moments to calm down before adding calmly, “I'd like to see you after class. Go complain to anyone you'd like, but I still would like a word with you.”

The bell rang then, and the students sat perched on the edge of their seats. He waited expectantly for a good minute before nodding towards the door. “You all should be out of here by now. Why aren't you?”

“With all due respect, sir, the bell doesn't dismiss us, _you_ do,” piped up a boy with dreads.

Sherlock's eyes traveled to a gaudy poster with the words, “I dismiss you, the bell doesn't!” He scoffed in disbelief. “What's the point in a bell, then? That's a stupid rule. When the bell rings, you're dismissed. Unless you've all gotten on my nerves or for some equally reasonable excuse, you can expect to be out of this room when that blasted device goes off. If you're name isn't Miles Driver, get out of my sights and my room. If you need an excuse slip, then let your teacher know. Leave.”

A couple of laughs sounded at Sherlock's wording, and the students were gone within a minute. He waved lazily to Dahlia in a farewell when she had given him one in turn, and the classroom was empty and silent. The only one that remained was Miles, who was currently trying to bore a hole in Sherlock's body with his eyes.

“It's not going to work, you know. Trying to intimidate me. I've been through much worse things than a high school student attempting to look scary.”

Miles sneered. “Like what? I'd like to get to class, if you don't mind,” he huffed.

Sherlock tensed slightly. “Listen here, you pompous arse,” he started quietly. Miles looked infuriated at Sherlock's insults. “I've arrested serial killer and kidnappers. I've seen dozens and dozens of dead bodies and broken individuals. I've been exiled, beaten, tortured, thrown out, and drugged up with every substance on this godforsaken green Earth. So if you think you can make me afraid of you, then you're rather wrong, _pal_. Now…” He stepped back and assessed the boy (who was now white as a sheet) with a sneer. “You're the last person who was seen with Brandy Almond, is that correct?”

The boy’s eyes flickered to the left minutely. “I-I'm sorry?”

“Brandy Almond. You two were on a date, correct?”

He scratched at the back of his head nervously, his fingers clenching slightly in his short blond hair. “Yeah. Don't see why this is important, but--”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Is Brandy not that important to you?” He hissed. “She's _gone_ and has _been_ gone for a long time. What do you know?”

Miles sunk into his seat. “I...we went down to the creek, and we were just...hanging out. I brought some drinks for us to share, but she wouldn't take them. She was being sort of a bitch, so she went back to her car. We had drove separately, so I decided to go home.”

“So you left without making sure she was okay.”

“Jesus, man!” He suddenly stood, thunderous. “What do you want from me, pictures? I'm out of here,” he growled. He gathered his things and stormed out of the room. 

That was all Sherlock needed to know. With a slight smirk, he quickly scribbled something down in a notebook before sitting down at his desk, reading through his notes quickly. 

It was his planning period. He had nearly an hour. Class could wait for now.  
~*~  
The days at Underhill turned into weeks, then, before either of them knew it, they had been residing in the little town for nearly a month.

The entire time they had been in Underhill, they had been staying in that tiny motel. The service was good (the food wasn't actually that bad), and the stay was alright, but...it just wasn't good.

Sherlock had claimed that the noise every night interrupted his thinking processes, and Molly had seemed to agree with him on that point.

Underhill was small, but many of the problems that occurred were things that Molly and Sherlock could easily fix. For example, Molly often had people coming to her for medical advice and remedies, so in a way, she was some sort of town doctor. Sherlock, on the other hand, had opened himself up for cases again. They needed the funding to stay at the motel, and they had to get it somewhere.

Word got around quick about their good deeds, and it added on to the fact that Molly was part of the police force and Sherlock was teaching at the high school.

Loads of students loved Sherlock. They liked his attitude, they liked his teaching methods, and interestingly enough, they just...liked _him_. Of course, some of the students were jackasses, but he wasn't bothered by that. Why should he be? He was having a decent time being a teacher, and he had thought that he would've been fired within the first two days.

Molly, however, didn't seem to get much done at the station. She did paperwork, sure, but that was all. It was a little strange to see officers lounging about, and even the calls that came in were suddenly very hush-hush, and whenever Molly asked about it, no one seemed prone to answer her.

Certainly, it was a little fishy. She was going to look into that.

A benefit of having so many kids taking a liking to Sherlock was the fact that he started to get to know Dahlia and Val a little better. Both were terribly bright, and while Val was a little harsh and had a dry sense of humor, Dahlia was very sweet and reserved. 

In his first week of teaching at the school, Sherlock hadn't bothered to eat much more than a granola bar Molly had somehow managed to sneak into the pocket of his coat. He had zero desire to eat in the teacher’s lounge, for he was pretty confident that many of the teachers hated him. Not only because he was a “pompous prick”, as John would have called him, but also because the kids had taken an immediate liking to him. Perhaps it was because he told the whole truth in its barren nakedness. Perhaps it was because he was a better teacher than many students had had before.

Not that he cared. He wasn't about to get sentimental over a group of pimply know-it-alls.

Of course, it was bound to happen that Val and Dahlia would take interest in him. 

Once, after Sherlock had dismissively flicked his wrist as was his habit to dismiss the class when the bell rang, Dahlia had stayed afterwards for a bit, taking too much time while packing up. He noticed this immediately, as she was usually the very first one out of the room, but he made no movement to hurry her. He'd give her a note, if needed.

He had his head bent while he scribbled grades and notes in the margins of his gradebook, so he couldn't tell that Dahlia was standing in front of his desk until she cleared her throat.

“Mister Holmes?” He flickered his gaze up towards her for a moment in acknowledgement. When it was apparent that she was to continue, she stammered out, “It's just that...you know...you don't _have_ to stay in the classroom to eat. In fact, the janitors encourage you to leave so they have less of a span of a mess to clean. You could go to the lounge--”

Sherlock quirked a brow. “Why are my eating habits a point of discussion?” He rumbled. 

Dahlia shifted on her feet nervously, eyes darting to meet his gaze and stopping only for a moment before switching to gaze at something else.

Eye contact makes her nervous, he noted in bemusement.

Sherlock, as it was obvious Dahlia had no good response to his question, asked quietly, “What’s your next class, Miss Littleton?”

“Oh, it's history with the Neckbiter, I can get there in ti--”

The bell sounded as Sherlock snorted. Dahlia suddenly looked sheepish. “Or I can take a tardy, I can afford one,” she added.

“Neckbiter?” His voice danced with amusement. He leant back in his chair and considered Dahlia for a moment. “I'll get you a tardy pass, not to worry.”

Dahlia looked slightly relieved at that, and her shoulders slumped back to her normal pose. “Well, I mean...I was going to ask if you'd like to sit with us at lunch,” she continued tentatively, gaze directed at her shoes. 

Sherlock was taken aback by that statement. Dahlia must've seen his face, because she quickly added, “But you don't have to. Val said that there was a good chance you wouldn't want to, and she said for me to prepare for the disappointment, because this was mainly my decision to ask, I just merely asked Val if it was a good idea--”

“Woah, hey, slow down. Of course I'll come sit at your table,” Sherlock soothed. 

The girl was suddenly beaming at him, and she pushed her glasses up her nose before hugging Sherlock. “Thanks, Mister Holmes. I really appreciate it,” she cooed. She then pulled away, and Sherlock gave her a tardy pass before she left the room.

“Dahlia.” She paused at the door and turned her head to meet his gaze momentarily, brows raised in confusion. “Tell Val to have a little more faith in me.”

She gave him a brilliant grin, and Dahlia was gone before Sherlock had a chance to blink.

He debated for a moment about not even showing at their table, thought about how disappointed Dahlia and Val would be, thought about how Molly would probably frown upon that, and decided reluctantly that he'd sit with them at lunch.

The first lunch went by without much incident. He was introduced to some of their friends, listened to the general gossip, and was offered some sage advice with dealing with the other teachers.

The second lunch made him a little more at ease within their little group.

By the third lunchtime, he was doing more talking than listening.

The first few times he sat at their table, he'd gotten a few odd looks passed his way--from teachers and students alike--but he soon settled into the routine without so much as a couple of words from outsiders.

So of course one day the conversation had to derail into the subject of their residings.

“I live just outside of town, a couple hundred feet from Val,” Dahlia offered, giving Sherlock a bright smile. 

Val snorted. “I don't think I need to share where I live now, though.”

A couple of giggles passed around the table. A couple of others shared their locations tentatively. A block from school, twenty miles away from Underhill, in the middle of nowhere. 

“Mister Holmes, surely you're not sleeping on a bench outside. Where do _you_ live?” Somebody questioned.

“London, England.”

“Sure as hell can tell it,” muttered Val, earning a light smack on the shoulder and a scolding look from Dahlia.

“No, really. I meant in Underhill. Where are you staying?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The motel. Where else would I be staying?”

“You mean you've been staying _there_ the entire time you've been here?” Val raised a brow. “Why didn't you say something? Surely you and Molly must be crowded in one room,” she added.

“We are, but we manage. The motel isn't that bad, I will admit,” Sherlock sighed.

Dahlia shook her head and tittered. “Mister Holmes, you should know that ninety percent of the people living in Underhill rarely get outside visitors and would immediately offer a place for you to stay if you needed one...which you do.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes minutely. “What are you saying?”

Val piped up, “Meet us after school.”

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Sherlock, brows furrowed, slid easily from the table and strode back to his room, deep in thought.  
~*~  
Sherlock could feel Molly's anxious gaze on him as he stepped up and knocked on the front door. It was the exact address that Val had given him. The house was painted a typical shade of blue, looked rather worn down, and was two stories high, but it did seem welcoming, and the addition of the extra land behind the house wasn't bad.

“Don't you think it's a little, oh...I don't know… _weird_ that we’ve been offered a stay at one of your students’ houses?” Molly asked shyly, shuffling and rubbing her hands together to keep them warm. Apparently, in Missouri, as soon as it was October, it turned cold very quickly.

Sherlock glanced over at her and wrinkled his nose. “Not particularly? Val said that her parents had seen the ‘good work’,” he put air quotes around the phrase, “that we’ve apparently been doing for the community. That, and she says that she's been bragging about me and my class for ages to them.”

Molly looked doubtful still. “Doesn't change much. There's laws about this, I'm pretty sure.”

“Who's going to tell, her parents? No.” He waved his hand impatiently. “The police here are useless anyways, as you've found.”

Molly was about to say something, but she shut her mouth when the door opened.

A woman peered out, smiled at them, and opened the door a little wider so she could step out a little bit. “Hello! You must be Mister Holmes,” she addressed Sherlock. She then turned her gaze to Molly and nodded to her. “And you must be Molly Hooper. I've heard quite a bit about you two. Come in, get out of the cold.”

As Molly chattered quietly with the woman who Sherlock assumed was Val’s mother, Sherlock gazed around the house. 

_Christians, if the couple of crosses decorating the walls were anything to go by. The mother was a bit stricter than that of the father, if her impeccable dress clothes were anything to go by. The father was a health nut, mother liked her drink, both enjoyed lottery tickets. Mrs. Brax was a dentist, which made more sense for her clothing choices, Mr. Brax was a chef. Neither worked in town._

He stepped closer to the counter and picked up a map emblazoned with, Visit beautiful Underhill! He scanned it quickly.

Two churches, a grocery store, a general store, a gas station, a public affairs office, the police station, a dentist’s office--perhaps she _did_ work in town, he always missed something--a doctor’s clinic, the high school, a small park, and a couple of diners. Underhill was small, certainly--only a total of three square miles--but it was surrounded by county roads and wide swaths of sweeping land. Not to mention, it seemed that rows of houses hounded the outskirts of Underhill.

“Hey, Nerdlord.”

Sherlock jumped slightly and turned to face a smiling Val. “Did you just…”

“Call you a Nerdlord? Yeah. I did. C’mon, Molly's already upstairs. Mom insisted on giving her a tour. Where's your shit?” She asked over her shoulder as she started off towards a spiraling staircase. 

“Er...Molly has it. I barely brought anything with me,” he muttered. 

Val clucked condescendingly. “Not a good thing to do with the weather we get in Missouri. You'll learn in time. If you need to borrow clothes, I'm pretty sure you'll be able to fit into Dad’s clothes.”

Sherlock scowled but said nothing. He followed Val up the stairs, and after a brief tour around the upstairs, she led him to a bare-looking bedroom. 

“Ohh, absolutely not! You, missy, are giving up your room! The guests aren't staying in _there_.” Val’s mother’s voice rang down the hallway. It was her turn to scowl.

“It's _literally_ called a guest bedroom. Why would you _not_...shit, man. Alright.” Val turned to Sherlock and rolled her eyes. “Guess you're staying in my room, then.”

When they arrived at her room, Molly was already sitting primly on the bed, her head twisting this way and that as she took in her surroundings. Posters of various movies and TV shows were nailed to the navy walls. Diagrams of what looked like astrological constellations were hung above a desk. Piles of papers and clothing littered the top of the desk, and in the corner, a large dog rested on a bed. It looked like a Great Dane. At the new noises, it raised its head and gave a soft _boof_ in greeting.

Sherlock gave Molly a reassuring smile (or was it for himself?). He sat down next to her and stared at Val, who was standing in the doorway.

She snapped her fingers gently and whistled. The dog uncurled from its bed and padded to Val happily, nuzzling against her leg. “This is Lil Sebastian. He's really nice, can't bring himself to hurt a fly. Well...unless it hurts him first. He's sort of a useless guard dog, honestly.”

The dog seemed to have given up on affection from Val, because he suddenly found something more interesting down the hallway.

“Hey, and don't ruin my bed. It's pretty new.”

He felt Molly shift slightly beside him. “What do you mean, ruin it?” She hummed. 

“Like, no sex. At all. If I find out that you two had sex in my bedroom, you're both grounded.”

Sherlock spluttered at the same time as Molly when she stammered out, “I'm sorry?”

Val laughed. “Just messing with you two. I'm seeing how far I can go without making you angry. Cheers,” she teased, and she gave a wave before closing the door behind her.

Sherlock glanced at Molly briefly, slyly. “At least this bed is bigger.”

He slept on the floor that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and chat with me at sirsquidfish-thefirst.tumblr.com!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every small town needs a playground, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for taking so long this time around. I've been super busy lately, so I can't promise when the next chapter will be out. Apologies!  
> Shout out to vertual for being a super beta reader. She's amazing and deserves all the love.  
> I don't own anything Sherlock related, but I do own the characters and the plot line. Mostly.  
> Enjoy!

Interesting. It would be just like Reich to choose that man for a teacher. 

The woman sat back and laced her fingers underneath her chin. The slightest of smirks adjusted itself on her face. At least that made her job a little easier.

She wouldn't kill him, not yet. This would be fun to watch for a while. Until she got bored.

She shut the laptop and narrowed her eyes at the list in her hand. Who would be next, then, after Frost...? Ah, yes. _That one_. That boy had always gotten on her nerves, acting like a smart ass and thinking he knew everything under the sun.... She wrote his name on a separate piece of paper, circling it for good measure.

A door burst open to her right. A man, worn at the edges and exhausted, hair tousled by the wind and rain, barked, “They say that they have everything in place back in town. Shall I make the call?”

The woman considered this, closing her eyes briefly. She finally flicked her hand and sighed. “I suppose. It's too bad we can't be there. Tell _him_ to put it into action. Is the poem written?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Good.” She stood and strode to the man, slapping her note against his chest. “This boy’s next. Charles will be pleased to see what the name is. Pass on the information that I'll be back before the end of the week.”

The man turned to leave, but at the last moment, the woman’s hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder. She reached up and nibbled at his ear lightly, murmuring, “Bring your wife tonight. She's such a sweet thing.”

The man blushed, stammered something incomprehensible, and left in a rush. The woman stood for a while before going back to her seat and opening her laptop again. On it were images of a group of teens, a couple of cops nervously glancing behind them, and a man walking purposefully through a crowd, coat collar pulled up.

She stroked the screen with one fire-orange fingernail. 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

What a fitting name; it was just as elegant as the man himself.

It was a shame he was going to die.

~*~

“Mister Holmes?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go to the restroom?”

He glanced up from the papers on his desk. Sherlock blinked before deadpanning, “I certainly hope you can. If you need any help, don't ask me.”

The girl scowled and rolled her eyes. “I can't believe you're one of _those_ people,” she sighed.

Sherlock chuckled and nodded to the door. “Be back before the bell rings,” he told her.

Fifth hour, he told himself. Only three more hours to go.

“Alright, hand in your quizzes.” The shuffling of paper and scuffling of chairs filled the room. A couple of mutters accompanied the noises. “Brett, don't act like you've never been taught this in your life. It's not my fault you don't pay attention. Violet, stop cheating. Is everyone’s in? Good.” Once the last quiz had been settled on his desk, Sherlock went to the board and wrote _Effects of radiation on the body’s cells_.

“Oddly enough, because the state decided that torturing its youth with what it’s already supplied its teachers with, the government wants you all to know the effects of radiation on the body’s cells. It's not at all useful to anyone’s career except for radiologists and perhaps engineers. Whoever heads the education department is a right idiot.” Sherlock ruffled through some of the papers on the desk (it was just as messy as 221B; thinking about the cozy place made his heart clench momentarily) and muttered, “A damned binder would be lovely.”

“Alright,” he said loudly, straightening up and waving the papers at the class. “Who can tell me what they know about radioactivity thus far?”

And so class went by. 

The next day, Sherlock found a red binder on his desk, brand new. There was no note to go along with it.

His suspicions pointed towards either Val or Dahlia, but neither had been in his class at the time; the class at that time had been seniors, and they were both sophomores.

He made a sly comment about the lack of tea in the teacher’s lounge with a different class that day. Once again neither of the young suspects had been present, yet he found a box of Twinings in the room by the end of the day.

For a week this went on. He'd make a joke about wanting something, and there it would be, either on his desk or in the lounge with his name on it. 

It made him wary. When he had approached Val and Dahlia about it, they both looked distinctly confused about it.

The handwriting on the notes was always different. He knew the packages had always been handled by someone different just by glancing at the crinkles and creases in the packaging.

It had to have been more than one person. It was too organized.

~*~

Molly glanced over at the group of people sitting at the table playing poker, then to the woman leaning back in her chair and bobbing her head to some music, then at the eternally closed door to Tony’s office. She sighed and shifted in her chair uncomfortably, placing her hands over her face.

She wasn't used to such a quiet, lazy workspace. Weren't cops supposed to be busy twenty-four seven?

“Hey, Molly.” Wearily, she peeked through her fingers. “Want to play strip poker?”

“Oh, piss off, Matt. If that's how you flirt, you'll never get some ass.”

The man gave a mock look of surprise to the younger officer who had spoken. “Now, Al, how would you know?”

Al grinned wolfishly then winked at Molly. “I get more ass than a toilet seat. You? You're too busy kissing your mother goodnight to see any beauties walking down the street.”

Molly balled a piece of paper in her fist as the men seated around the table barked out laughter. She gritted her teeth, took in a deep breath, then excused herself to the lounge.

This wasn't right. There hadn't been a single mention of the murders or how they were going to catch the killer. _Hell, nobody’s even said a word about trying to find that missing girl._

She took a sip of the lukewarm water she had gotten from the cooler. God, this place didn't even have a decent water fountain.

“Howdy.” Molly looked up from where she leant against the counter, between the microwave and the water cooler. Tony was standing in the doorway, hands in his jean pockets and looking slightly nervous, as usual. “Didn't know you'd be in here, too.”

Molly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Did he not just see what went down in the office? “What's the problem?” she asked, harsher than expected.

Tony seemed to not take offense. He must've not picked up on her hostile tone. “It's just...um. I have more paperwork that you should fill out.” He waved a stack of papers at her halfheartedly.

She strode over, snatched the papers out of his hands, and glanced over them briefly. “They're grant permissions. From the school,” she said slowly. “Doesn't this go to the board of education?”

The man shifted skittishly. “Er, in Underhill, the police department is sort of a mix of everything. Education board, parks and recreation, you name it. We do have a board office, but it's useless.”

_Almost as useless as the police force._

“Hm.” Molly set it on the counter and stared down at her cup of water. “Any closer to finding that missing girl or who committed all of those murders?” she questioned casually. 

“Not right now. We've been working hard to try and find some clues.”

_Liar._ If they were really trying to find some leads, the damned officers wouldn't be sitting on their bums the entire day. 

Molly bit the inside of her cheek. She smiled sweetly. “It sure looks like it. Listen, I'd love to stay and chat, but I have loads of paperwork to catch up on. See you around.”

With a slight wave, Molly edged around him and made for the door with the papers in hand. She sat back at her desk and sank into the work, scowling as her eyes flitted over the many words. God, this was going to take forever.

Hours later, Molly sat back in her chair and cracked her knuckles. Tony had left shortly after she started; now nearly everyone else was gone too. She set the stack of paper to the side and stretched, and she froze when her eyes caught sight of an open door.

Specifically, the one to Tony’s office. 

She slid from her chair and glanced around, ensuring the remaining two people in the area were invested in their game of poker, and snuck her way over to the door. 

At that point, she was presented with two options: go into the office and snoop around, or leave and forget she ever saw that door open. Obviously, she had to go with the former. However, just as she set foot in the doorway something creaked behind her, and she fled before anyone could catch her, having the sense to scoop up her bag on her way. Later, she would find out that it was just the wind making the building creak. 

As she rushed out to the sidewalk she had a sudden, chilling feeling: what did Tony have hidden in the _locked_ file cabinet in his office?

She made a mental note to check to see if his door was unlocked tomorrow. 

Determined, Molly set off for the house, lips pressed together tightly. There was just enough sunlight left outside for her to find her way without help from the streetlights.

~*~

“Aw, dude, that diner’s the _best_.” Val’s finger barely brushed Sherlock's nose (he gave a little huff and jerked his head back; Val didn't notice) as she pointed out of the window to a shabby looking restaurant to their left. She glanced over at him briefly with a manic grin before returning her attention to the road. “They have some damn amazing lemon pie.”

From behind her, Dahlia made a noise of disgust. “Lemons are disgusting. Don't be fooled, Sherlock; the other diner is clearly superior.”

“All they serve are soups and salads, Lia.”

“They do not--!” Dahlia cut herself off before she truly rose to the bait. “Whatever. I'll take you to the other diner first. All _they_ serve--” clearly a jab at Val, because the girl snorted, “--is greasy hamburgers.”

“But they're delicious greasy hamburgers.”

Grudgingly, Dahlia grumbled, “But yes, some of their food is quite tasty. I said _some_!” Dahlia protested at the victorious laugh Val gave.

Molly tried to stifle a smile and easily failed. She could tell Sherlock was getting a little annoyed by their frankly domestic chatter, so she quickly said, “For such a small town, there sure are a lot of buildings.”

Sherlock, from the passenger’s seat, added, “I never would have suspected a Catholic church in little Underhill. Catholic priests love the filthy rich.”

Molly, horrified, yelped out a “Sherlock!” and slapped his shoulder. He wrinkled his nose, slightly hurt, and muttered something about being truthful.

Val winced from the front seat and held up a finger. “Strike one. Best not say that in front of my parents--my mom, anyways--or you'll be out of the house before you can say ‘jackknife’,” she sighed. 

Dahlia, sensing a slight tension, said quickly, “Hey Val, I know we've seen the diners, churches, offices, clinics, and everything between, but how about the park? We haven't seen that yet.”

Val made a noise in the back of her throat, and she sped along a gravel road that traveled around the outskirts of town. Molly leant her cheek against the cool window, eyes flicking everywhere and taking everything in at once.

Living outside of a big city always weirded Molly out. She was born and raised in an urban setting, never had a backyard to speak of, not really any clean air to breathe. She definitely never had to wake up to the smell of cow pies in the morning. 

But she enjoyed it. It was a simple way to live. When she was older, perhaps, she would move out to a sweet, charming farm in Scotland. Maybe she'd start her own little business, like a bakery or a soap shop.

She shook her head. _Not the time, Molly._

“Aw, look! It's the park, Dahlia. Remember when we were kids and came here and played? Remember the slides that were never broken and the swings that we always swung on? Because I certainly don't.”

At that, Dahlia laughed. Molly peered around the young girl to get a better look at the sorry excuse for a park.

On the plot of land sat a sad looking metal slide, the material twisted and dented. To the side lay a broken teeter totter. A sandbox, long overgrown with weeds and grass, crumbled next to the slide.

“That's a park?” Sherlock sounded mocking. “Well then, if that's a park, then I suppose that means that anyone can be anything they wish to. For instance, I'm now a beekeeper. You're welcome.”

Molly laughed and shook her head. Sherlock turned around and pinned her with a deadly serious stare. “Really, Molly. Bees are an important component to everyday life. Did you know, I haven't seen a single bee since we've been in Underhill? Ridiculous.”

“Ah.” Val rubbed the back of her neck, looking slightly miffed. “That could be because of ol’ Henry, down the road from us. He loves pesticides. Lia and I have been trying to tell him for years, but…” she trailed off and shrugged her shoulders, letting the story finish itself off.

Sherlock's expression darkened. “I may have to have a word with this… _Henry_.”

“Sherlock,” Molly warned. He relaxed back into his seat, looking only mildly resigned. She returned her gaze to the front, eyes flickering between the road and Val. “I have a quick question.”

“And we may have an answer,” Dahlia responded cheekily. 

“Why do you guys call the history teacher ‘the Neckbiter’?” 

Sherlock gave her a bemused glance. “How'd you find that out?” He questioned.

“You told me.”

“Oh. Right.”

Val shrugged and tapped her fingernails against the wheel. “Because he's an asshole,” she said simply.

“Also, he jumps at any opportunity to criticize people he doesn't like...which is literally everybody except for the boys he has in his sports programs. He bites at people’s necks, sometimes literally, I'm sure,” Dahlia added helpfully.

“Ah.”

“That help, Molly?”

“Yep.”

“That’s good.

“Anyways…” Val shifted her truck again, and she cursed loudly when the motor stalled. “God, I hate stick shift. Mom and Dad say I'm getting a real truck when I graduate, but I might just bite the bullet and buy one myself. I can't handle this bucket of rust much longer. It's from the damn seventies. Belonged to my Uncle Rob. Motherf--”

Dahlia pressed her lips together and stared out of the window as Val went on another stream of curse words when the truck died again before sputtering back to life. They were on a bridge, now, passing out of the small area of land that surrounded the park, following a slightly dried up stream which branched into a dead river. On the horizon lay a large, concrete building. To their right was a sign posted on a heavy metal gate. The road leading to the building was cracked and falling apart, and surrounding the perimeter was a solid metal fence.

_NO TRESPASSING. ALL VIOLATORS WILL BE SUBJECT TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW_ , read one sign. _ALMOND WATER FACILITY AND TREATMENT PLANT_ , declared another. Below it, another poster declared happily, _We've been providing Underhill, Fort York, and Springhill clean water for over forty years!_ Over the two declarations was a single, red word, slashed over the two in a damning font: _ABANDONED_.

Dahlia sighed sadly. “I'm still angry that the water facility was shut down. First, it was because of health reasons, which was a load of shit, really, because Almond always made sure his faculties were clean before he opened in the morning. Then it was because the river dried up. Fair enough, I suppose, but still… now we get our water from _Fort York_. The smug bastards, always vying for more attention than they need.”

“Where's Springhill?” Sherlock asked.

Val passed him an uneasy look. “Springhill’s a ghost town, now. No more trouble from them.”

“Why?”

“Fort York bought them out.”

Molly gazed out of the window at the looming building. “How long has it been empty?” she questioned softly. 

“Two years. Though, there's rumors going around that Satanists go there to perform rituals. The police are too busy being lazy to investigate. They're pretty terrible at their job,” piped up Dahlia.

“Knew it,” muttered Molly. “Wait. Almond. As in, Brandy Almond?” 

“Yeah.” Val turned around to look at her inquisitively. “Her parents owned the plant. Why?”

Sherlock turned around to meet her excited expression with a smug look of his own. “A lead,” they both said at the same time. They then turned to stare at Val intensely.

“Jesus, that's creepy. What?”

“Do you happen to know where her parents live?” Molly asked, eyes bright.

Dahlia replied before Val did. “Yeah. Brandy and I had band together, so we’d usually be at either house practicing.”

“Where are her parents now?”

She wrinkled her nose, causing her glasses to fall down her face slightly. “They're in, like, Springfield or Topeka or something, trying to get more police forces involved in finding their daughter. They have a business meeting somewhere there, too.”

“So not here, basically,” Val chirped from the front seat. Dahlia nodded her assent.

Sherlock deflated a little. Molly patted his shoulder patronizingly. “It was worth a try,” she admitted grudgingly. She wasn't very happy that one of their most important leads was out of the city; indeed, even the state.

They sat in silence for a while until Val shifted the truck and started along the road out of the shabbier looking part of town. It was only broken by Val’s rather impressive string of curses when the truck’s motor stalled again.

~*~

There was no smoking on school property. Sherlock knew that. And so did the group of jocks who always seemed to be having a smoke the same time as him.

The first day he went out for a cigarette, he and the group of jocks eyed each other for approximately a minute before Sherlock shrugged. “I won't tell if you won't tell,” was all he said, and it seemed that they all silently agreed.

He didn't smoke everyday. Just the days when he thought he needed it the most, like when his mind won't stop racing or when he couldn’t concentrate because of the case or when his students were being especially idiotic. Sherlock didn't care to smoke otherwise because a) it made him smell bad, and b) Molly's piercing stare would always make him feel like a terrible person for smoking. As it should.

Today, it had been because of the case. 

Surely Brandy Almond wasn't out of the state. That would be too much of a hassle for the kidnapper. No, she was either in a separate city… or hidden in plain sight. That would explain why her parents hadn't gone _that_ far to ask for more help. 

What about the murderer? It was likely that the murderer and the kidnapper were one in the same. However, there could be more than one person committing the crimes….

Sherlock took a last drag from his cigarette before flicking it away, looking at it in disgust. He really needed to quit. 

The door to his left opened and shut suddenly. Sherlock didn't think much of it, assuming that it would've been the jocks going back inside. 

Instead, a man lit a cigarette before glancing at Sherlock. It was the history teacher that Val and Dahlia not-so-affectionately dubbed “the Neckbiter”.

“Smoking on school grounds is a criminal offense, you know,” the man stated blandly, looking at the littered cigarette butt with mild interest. In response, Sherlock shrugged.

“I hardly think you'll be the first person to run and tattle,” he said smoothly, motioning to the cigarette in the Neckbiter’s hand. 

The man smirked and shook his head. “To change the subject, I heard you're on the case of Brandy Almond and those who've been killed,” he sighed.

The choice of words seemed to stick out a little to Sherlock, and they rubbed him the wrong way, but he shoved the suspicion down and quirked a brow at the man. “Yeah. What's it to you?”

“Nothing. It just seems as if you and your partner--by the way, she's a delectable little thing--haven't really done much.”

Sherlock tensed at the low blow to Molly. He knew the man was just trying to rile him up, and he shouldn't rise to the bait, but still. There was no need to get Molly involved. “What do you want?” he growled.

“You see, the thing is that I don't trust people who seem to appear out of nowhere.” The man flicked ash from the end of his cigarette, inhaling from it deeply. “The police are doing everything in their power to do what they can--”

“They refuse to work with us, and they're doing _nothing_ , according to my _partner_ ,” Sherlock spat.

“--and you two are just leeching off of our little community,” he continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. “What I'm saying, anyways, is that you and your little darling better mosey on out of this town soon,” he finished, his smile entirely too bright. 

Sherlock stepped closer, his expression dark. “We’re leaving as soon as the case is finished, no sooner than that. Why do you care so much?” he snarled.

The man matched his expression in a blink. “I'm not a man you want to mess with, Holmes,” he said fiercely.

Sherlock smiled mockingly. “Really? I have the entire government of England behind me. I doubt you'd really want to muck about with me, either,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, almost inviting the man to throw a punch.

They stood like that for a couple of seconds longer before the other man broke away, stepping back and taking another deep breath from his smoke. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stepped past him, heading for the door. As he passed, the man blew smoke into Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's resolve nearly broke then and there, but he merely glared back and entered the building, pulling the door shut behind him forcefully.

Revenge was best served cold, anyways.

It was only when Sherlock was safely back in his room when it hit him: why had the Neckbiter said “those who've been killed”? There had been only one death thus far.

He barely had any time to think about it before his next class came in, chattering and laughing as the lunch period ended and the last half of the school day began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me! sirsquidfish-thefirst on tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking, by the way. I'll be leaving references to fandoms here and there in chapters. Ill somehow make it into a sort of contest. If you guys want to hear more about it, tell me over at my tumblr, sirsquidfish-thefirst.tumblr.com! Feedback is always welcome.


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